In the oldest corridor of the Winter Palace, where the stones held whispers and the air tasted like secrets, Aurora stood before her reflection.
The mirror had not changed since she was Empress.
Still the same carved rosewood frame. Still the same faint crack in the corner. But the woman staring back at her now was different. Her gown was simpler. Her eyes sharper. Her back straighter—not out of pride, but preparation.
"You were right to come," said Elias softly behind her.
She didn't turn. "Am I?"
He stepped beside her, folding a crisp paper against his palm. "Your face is on posters outside the main court. Not as a traitor. As a nominee."
Aurora met her own gaze. "Do they know I might burn the system down from inside?"
"They're counting on it," Elias said. "That's the only reason they're letting you in."
Across the hall, Lucien prepared in silence.
The council chamber had not been opened in nearly two generations. Dust had settled on the marble crest of the Empire. Candles had to be relit by servants trained in protocols no one had used since the Revolt of Silvers.
Lucien stood before a map. Not of territories. Of public sentiment.
Dots of red ink bled across cities where Aurora's writings had gone viral. Where mothers named their daughters after her. Where students painted her initials on brick walls. The ink outnumbered the gold by nearly half.
Behind him, Seraphina walked in uninvited.
Lucien didn't react.
"You're going to seat her at the table," she said, walking the length of the room with a slow, rhythmic step. "You're going to give her a voice. Let her poison the council with romantic little fires."
"She already has the people's voice," Lucien replied without turning. "This is just making it official."
Seraphina laughed softly. "No. This is you undoing your crown one vote at a time."
She approached the map. "You think sharing the table saves you. It only shows how weak your seat has become."
Lucien finally turned. "The people don't want a tyrant."
She smiled, brushing her fingers over the city of Caldra. "They don't want a coward either."
Meanwhile, Aurora's arrival at the palace sparked chaos in the streets.
Not riots—but something stranger. Celebration.
Women knelt in the dirt to lay flowers across her path. Children threw paper doves into the air. One girl, no older than ten, reached through the guards to press a tiny copper ring into Aurora's palm.
"For hope," she whispered.
Aurora held it like it was a crown.
Inside the palace, however, the welcome was colder.
The nobles lined the upper galleries of the Council Hall. Some leaned over to get a better look. Others whispered behind fans, faces like masks.
"She's too pretty for a revolution," one of them muttered.
"She's too clever for comfort," said another.
As Aurora entered the chamber, she felt their stares like arrows.
But Lucien stood.
"Lady Aurora Vale," he said, voice steady, "you are invited here as a representative of the Free Daughters and the unified civilian voices of Caelstead, Varenmoor, and the Southern Federation. Do you accept this seat?"
Aurora didn't blink. "I accept."
She moved toward the long table, where three chairs stood.
One for the Crown.
One for the Merchant Voice.
And now… one for her.
She sat.
And history bent.
Seraphina watched from the gallery, her expression unreadable. A single priest leaned toward her.
"Shall we proceed with the Silence Act?"
"Not yet," she whispered. "Let them taste her first. If they choke, the Empire will ask us to take the spoon away."
The first day of council was ceremonial.
The second, volatile.
By the third, Aurora introduced her first motion: the abolition of temple-sponsored punishments for women under eighteen.
Silence.
Then murmurs.
Then uproar.
"Blasphemy!" shouted one highborn senator. "You dare question the Oracle's justice?"
"I question the Empire's cruelty," Aurora replied coolly. "Faith is not the same as fear."
Lucien didn't stop her.
He didn't support her either.
He watched.
Measured.
Waited.
The vote failed—but barely.
And as Aurora stood to leave, dozens of civilian observers in the upper chambers clapped anyway.
That night, in her temporary quarters, Aurora stood again before a mirror.
Same face. Same flame. But exhaustion settled in her bones like winter.
Behind her, Mireille entered with a bundle of letters. "You've received three marriage proposals, six death threats, and a petition with 4,000 signatures supporting your temple reform."
Aurora took the pile. "All in a day's work."
"Also…" Mireille hesitated, then handed over a small envelope. No seal. No name.
Aurora opened it.
Inside was a single strip of paper:
Come to the hall where we first danced.—L
It was past midnight when she reached the ballroom.
Lit only by moonlight, it felt more ghost than space.
Lucien stood alone, no crown, no guards. Just a memory in flesh.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said quietly.
"I wasn't sure I would," Aurora replied.
They stood facing each other in silence. The last time they were here, music had swirled, and she'd worn ivory silk. Now, there was only shadow.
"I never danced again after you left," he said.
Aurora tilted her head. "Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?"
"No," Lucien said. "It's supposed to tell you I never stopped missing you."
She didn't move.
"I wasn't brave then," he admitted. "But I see you now, and I—"
"Stop," Aurora whispered.
Lucien looked away. "Why?"
"Because if you say you love me, I'll believe you. And I can't afford to believe you again."
A beat of silence.
Then she walked away.
And he didn't follow.
The next morning, a servant found a scroll nailed to the palace gates.
Written in red ink.
No signature.
But the words burned:
She sits at your table, but truth will not sit still.While you speak of reform, your temples brand children.While you vote, we bleed.
One voice is not enough.
The Revolution has begun.
Lucien read it thrice.
Then crumpled it.
He stared out the window as thunder rolled across the mountains.
He knew what was coming.
Not rebellion.
Not politics.
Not even Aurora.
No.
What was coming… was the mirror.
And this time, the Empire would have to decide which face it really wore.